Read Online Blood of the Reich by William Dietrich - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Dietrich
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bags, pads, and other gear. “I like to camp,” Jake said as she rummaged.
“You’re not taking us into the woods, are you?”
“Not exactly. It’s a red plastic box.”
She found the first aid packet, bandaged her own knees, and sat annoyed at her disarray. Rominy was no supermodel, but men had been known to give her a second glance. She took pride in looking good, and she’d worn a skirt to the store. Now she was dirty, scraped, and tear-stained, and she didn’t like Jake seeing her that way. Her eyes were an intriguing hazel, hair dark with an auburn tint, skin just slightly olive, which helped her avoid that Seattle winter-worm look, and she wasn’t afraid to be seen in a swimsuit. But now? She drew confidence from her appearance, and this weird flight from the Safeway parking lot had drained it.
Was that part of Barrow’s plan?
“Here, I’ll take that.” He held his hand out for the antiseptic pad she’d cleaned herself with and glanced at the stain. “Blood.”
“Heck, yes, it’s blood.” She could still feel the sting.
“I know you’re mad, but it will be worth it. You’ll see.” He dropped the pad into a plastic bag he had hanging from the dash. The truck had old-fashioned knobs instead of buttons. If this was what Jake could afford on his investigative reporter’s salary, how good could he be?
Judging, Rominy. Right now she was a step or two behind this guy. She had to get a step or two ahead.
They passed Mount Vernon and Burlington and took the Cook Road exit off the freeway, heading east up the valley. Barrow seemed to relax a little. The mountains began squeezing in toward the Skagit River like a funnel, piling up toward the rocky crests of North Cascades National Park. The foothills were snowless in late summer, the land somnolent and satisfied as the harvest came in before the autumn storms. Pasture hemmed by dark forest, the way she imagined a place like Germany might look. She’d never been to Europe. The Skagit River ran green to match the forest, thick and deep.
Elk were grazing in one meadow.
They passed through Sedro Woolley, Lyman, and Hamilton, each town smaller and each mile taking her deeper into the mountains and farther from the likelihood of any help. Her cell phone remained a useless paperweight, and he hadn’t even asked if she needed to pee. At some point he’d have to stop for gas . . .
“Here we are.”
They lurched off the highway onto a road called Challenger and coasted up past trim, modest frame homes set on a hillside above the river. Their lawns were brave bright badges against the darker forest. He braked at a small vineyard with a sign that said Challenger Ridge. Neat rows of grape vines led uphill to a wall of maple and fir. Old farm buildings, barn boards weathered and mossy, formed a cluster on either side of the road. Jake parked and got out, stretched, and walked around to jerk open Rominy’s door.
It creaked, and Barrow took her hand to help her out. His own hand was large, hard, and callused for a newspaperman. He had an athlete’s easy poise. “You can run if you want, but you’ll get a glass of wine if you hear me out.”
She stepped down stiffly. A sleepy collie came over to nose them. The tasting room was a cedar-roofed, single-gable house with wooden porch. It had twin American flags and flower planters made from wine barrels. Picnic tables tilted slightly on grass dotted with clover.
“Where’s Norman Rockwell?”
“The house dates from 1904,” Jake said. “Hobby farm turned medal-winning business. We did a story on them once in our weekend section, and I like their pinot. They do some nice blends with Yakima grapes as well.”
Yep, she’d gotten her wine guy. “There’s no one else here.”
“Kind of the point. It’s quiet on a Monday, and we need space to talk. It helps you had today off to go grocery shopping.”
“That’s me, lucky girl.”
“I know this is hard, Rominy.”
“Comp time. We were working
“You’re not taking us into the woods, are you?”
“Not exactly. It’s a red plastic box.”
She found the first aid packet, bandaged her own knees, and sat annoyed at her disarray. Rominy was no supermodel, but men had been known to give her a second glance. She took pride in looking good, and she’d worn a skirt to the store. Now she was dirty, scraped, and tear-stained, and she didn’t like Jake seeing her that way. Her eyes were an intriguing hazel, hair dark with an auburn tint, skin just slightly olive, which helped her avoid that Seattle winter-worm look, and she wasn’t afraid to be seen in a swimsuit. But now? She drew confidence from her appearance, and this weird flight from the Safeway parking lot had drained it.
Was that part of Barrow’s plan?
“Here, I’ll take that.” He held his hand out for the antiseptic pad she’d cleaned herself with and glanced at the stain. “Blood.”
“Heck, yes, it’s blood.” She could still feel the sting.
“I know you’re mad, but it will be worth it. You’ll see.” He dropped the pad into a plastic bag he had hanging from the dash. The truck had old-fashioned knobs instead of buttons. If this was what Jake could afford on his investigative reporter’s salary, how good could he be?
Judging, Rominy. Right now she was a step or two behind this guy. She had to get a step or two ahead.
They passed Mount Vernon and Burlington and took the Cook Road exit off the freeway, heading east up the valley. Barrow seemed to relax a little. The mountains began squeezing in toward the Skagit River like a funnel, piling up toward the rocky crests of North Cascades National Park. The foothills were snowless in late summer, the land somnolent and satisfied as the harvest came in before the autumn storms. Pasture hemmed by dark forest, the way she imagined a place like Germany might look. She’d never been to Europe. The Skagit River ran green to match the forest, thick and deep.
Elk were grazing in one meadow.
They passed through Sedro Woolley, Lyman, and Hamilton, each town smaller and each mile taking her deeper into the mountains and farther from the likelihood of any help. Her cell phone remained a useless paperweight, and he hadn’t even asked if she needed to pee. At some point he’d have to stop for gas . . .
“Here we are.”
They lurched off the highway onto a road called Challenger and coasted up past trim, modest frame homes set on a hillside above the river. Their lawns were brave bright badges against the darker forest. He braked at a small vineyard with a sign that said Challenger Ridge. Neat rows of grape vines led uphill to a wall of maple and fir. Old farm buildings, barn boards weathered and mossy, formed a cluster on either side of the road. Jake parked and got out, stretched, and walked around to jerk open Rominy’s door.
It creaked, and Barrow took her hand to help her out. His own hand was large, hard, and callused for a newspaperman. He had an athlete’s easy poise. “You can run if you want, but you’ll get a glass of wine if you hear me out.”
She stepped down stiffly. A sleepy collie came over to nose them. The tasting room was a cedar-roofed, single-gable house with wooden porch. It had twin American flags and flower planters made from wine barrels. Picnic tables tilted slightly on grass dotted with clover.
“Where’s Norman Rockwell?”
“The house dates from 1904,” Jake said. “Hobby farm turned medal-winning business. We did a story on them once in our weekend section, and I like their pinot. They do some nice blends with Yakima grapes as well.”
Yep, she’d gotten her wine guy. “There’s no one else here.”
“Kind of the point. It’s quiet on a Monday, and we need space to talk. It helps you had today off to go grocery shopping.”
“That’s me, lucky girl.”
“I know this is hard, Rominy.”
“Comp time. We were working
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